


Ready yet.

by doublehoopedfeature



Category: South Park
Genre: Arguing, Domestic, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Married Life, Mentioned Adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 13:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15730434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublehoopedfeature/pseuds/doublehoopedfeature
Summary: In which Stan wants to expand their family, but Kyle isn't so sure.





	Ready yet.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short fic I've been working on for the past few days. I exclusively listened to Fox Academy and The Cure while writing this.

Their fights aren’t like the jarringly loud, discordant arguments that Randy and Sharon have, and they’re most definitely not like the respectfully hushed ones Gerald and Sheila hold. It’s a comical combination of both, small parts of both worlds. Incidentally, the households seem to have flipped in Kyle and Stan’s case; Kyle forgets how to be quiet and tries to drown out the world with his voice, and Stan strains to calm everything down. They’re a gray-area sort of couple, where one of them is always too much or too little.

They’re fighting now, in the middle of their mid-century modern living room, with Kyle hovering furiously over their beloved, vintage vase they picked up at one of Token’s yearly auction. Stan’s eyeing him and the treasure warily, with the same look he gives uncontrollable dogs at animal shelters. His hands are far in front of him, both open palms facing Kyle. It’s insulting, and only makes him angrier.

“I just don’t understand why not,” Stan grits out. It’s strange how much bigger he seems when he’s irritated. His shoulders get high and tense, his chest balloons, and his normally gentle face takes on a sharper edge. Kyle thinks it’s attractive, stupidly so, and maybe it even tempts the churning rage inside him. Oil to the flames. “I mean, all you do is put it off and talk about how idiotic the idea is.”

“We’ve already discussed this,” Kyle says, trying so hard to stay patient but quickly losing grip on his reigns. “I have a _job_. Barely. I’d be too fucking busy.”

“ _I_ don’t have one! I’d have all the fucking time in the world.”

“That’s part of the issue, Stan! Christ, can’t you see? We barely have the finances to keep the two of us afloat, let alone a _baby_ ,” he snaps, but Stan is unmoving. He’s been mentioning adoption for three years, and he’s clearly done waiting.

“Our finances are fine,” Stan responds tightly, hands moving to cross firmly over his chest. He’s lenient about almost anything, but this happens to be the one thing he’s unwilling to consider otherwise. _Family. Raising a kid._ Kyle scoffs. “You’ve ‘kept us afloat’ for six years.”

“How many more times am I going to have to say barely?”

“We’re not in debt or anything! You have a steady income, we _own_ this house-” he sweeps his hand to motion at the furniture around them, “this land, without any mortgage! Wendy practically gifted this place to us. I don’t–– you just–– you keep making excuses that don’t exist.”

“Excuses?” Kyle seethes, vexed by how unfair Stan’s being about everything. Can’t he see why Kyle keeps refusing? Can’t he try to understand or wait a little longer? “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you handled the bills. I didn’t know you paid the taxes. I didn’t know you did enough in this household to make a decision as big as adoption.”

Stan’s eyebrows fold together in an un-Stan-like way. “What are you trying to s––”

“I’m trying to say I don’t need another mistake to take care of!”

He only realizes he’s gone too far when Stan’s eyebrows shoot up and stills, the rest of the house suddenly unbearably silent. The echoes of his own, biting insult seem to bounce off the walls in the house, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Kyle wishes, silently begs, for the two of them to continue yelling; he can’t stand leaving his last comment hanging in the air. It feels like he’s been shot when Stan’s face smooths over in moments, his husband’s face still pale and fingers trembling with blatant hurt.

“You don’t trust me,” he whispers, sounding awed yet unnervingly calm. “You don’t think I can raise shit.”

The last comment is so far from the truth that Kyle nervously laughs, except it’s not funny at all. His heart is pounding hard and fast, and he wants to apologize and assure Stan that he’d be an amazing father, with his unmatched patience and ability to care. It’s not _Stan_ he’s worried about.

The stubborn, self-righteous part of him decides to take the ivory and rust colored vase from the coffee table and shatter it on the carpet. The two of them flinch as the shards shoot in every direction, and Stan’s looks so surprised and betrayed, it hurts. His gaze shoots from the mess on the floor back to Kyle, who can’t seem to do much more than cower.  

“I––you…” he starts, and the startled expression on his face dissolves into disappointment, which stings more than any furious one might’ve. He exhales loudly and stumbles away to gather a coat and his phone. “Kyle Broflovski, you are just too much for me.”

“That’s not what–– where are you going?”

“Out.”

Kyle’s heart drops. “Stanley,” he says, trailing his husband nervously to the front door. He doesn’t want him to leave, doesn’t want to fester this ugly feeling, doesn’t want to lick his wounds alone. A hypothetical baby shouldn’t come between the two them.

Stan’s already slipped his shoes on, though, and he unlocks the door before swiftly swinging it open. Before he leaves, he glances back at Kyle out of habit, face softening into something tired, something sad. “I just need some air.”

“Stan.”

“Just… stay home and keep making the big decisions, Kyle.”

The door slams shut, and Kyle is left alone.

  


The house is dark when Stan comes back. The sound of quiet cursing from the living room stirs Kyle awake from his sleep, and distant crunches and uneven shuffling reminds him that he’s forgotten to clean it up. He stays silent and still as Stan finds his way to their bedroom, sighing loudly as he pops off his shoes.

A breeze hits Kyle’s backside when the blanket is lifted from behind, and the familiar rustling of Stan crawling in to spoon him. A heavy arm wraps itself around Kyle’s chest and pulls him in closer. He smells like whiskey and clean air, and Kyle has to shut his eyes to stop them from prickling.

“I’m sorry,” Stan mumbles against the nape of his neck. He knows he’s awake.

Kyle feels his throat squeeze. Stan’s always the one apologizing by the end of the day, and it’s so unfair to him. It’s not Stan’s fault. “You’d be a great dad.” His voice wavers.

“ _We’d_ be great dads,” he hushes, breath hot against Kyle’s ear. His calloused thumbs find its way to Kyle’s watery eyes, brushing the forming tears away.

“I don’t want this to come between us.”

“Hey, hey. This won’t ever come between us. Nothing could.”

“I just… I’m worried I’d mess them up.” Kyle thinks of South Park, thinks of all the people they left behind. He thinks of how he left his parents in such a hurry, ten years ago. He and Stan live in California now, but what if the South Park side of them has trailed the two of them all the way here?

“You wouldn’t. Look, we can wait, if that’s what you want. I don’t care how long; you could be ready when we’re ninety-seven years old. And even if you never were ready, I’d still love you.”

The way Stan says this is gentle and heartbreakingly kind, and Kyle begins to cry. He can’t see his husband’s face, but he imagines the way he looks pressed up against his neck. “Hey, I’m sorry. Shh, shh,” Stan hushes, pulling Kyle in so close he can’t recognize who’s legs is who’s.

Later that night, hours after they’ve fallen asleep in the same position, Kyle dreams of a small, Thai girl, about three years old. She has tiny fingernails and big cheeks and soulful eyes, and somehow, he knows she’s his daughter. Kyle’s patting down her skirt, berating her for running too fast and tripping over herself. Stan watches from a distance, smiling crookedly as he pulls out his camera.

 _Don’t,_ Kyle groans, in the middle of strapping the velcro on their daughter’s flats. She babbles happily when Stan laughs. _It’s embarrassing._

 _You guys look so cute, though._ The camera shutters go off.

Stan let’s Kyle stand up and lean over to inspect the photo. The baby and him are smiling wide, flushed and cheeky and unfocused.

They look so happy.


End file.
